Matzo Ball of Fire
by Allison Lindsay
Summary: Maxwell's office is hardly the quintessential hideout—he'd have more privacy in the whine cellar—but where else can he go? His bedroom? The scene of the… happy accident? No. No, it didn't happen—happily, accidentally, or otherwise. Then why does he feel so guilty? Alternate ending to "Strange Bedfellows."


Matzo Ball of Fire

by

Allison Lindsay

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Disclaimer: Regrettably, I don't own _The Nanny_. Like Fran, whose mother once picked her up from school in a halter top and pedal pushers, I'm still looking for the right support group.

Author's note: This picks up right at the freeze frame ending of "Strange Bedfellows."

* * *

This Franfic is dedicated to Kristen. Happy birthday, girl!

* * *

"If you'll excuse me, Miss Fine," Maxwell Sheffield splutters, feeling more pusillanimous than Noël Coward, "I'll go start packing for my guilt trip."

And with that, the producer scuttles through the living room, nearly taking a Dick Van Dyke-like pratfall in the process.

Eventually, Max makes it safely to his office. It's hardly the quintessential hideout—he'd have more privacy in the whine cellar—but where else can he go? His bedroom? The scene of the… happy accident?

No. No, it didn't happen—happily, accidentally, or otherwise.

Then why does he feel so guilty?

Surely, he would have remembered.

Even she had said so.

And she… well, let's just say Barbra Streisand would envy Fran's "Memory" of the experience.

Max massages his forehead, vacillating between elitist and defeatist and trying in vain to convince himself that even if something did happen, it meant _bupkis_.

The producer plucks a handkerchief from his pocket and stifles a sneeze. Even with his stuffy noise, he can detect the subtle but scintillating scent of Shalimar, Fran's signature fragrance. Every time she perches on his desk to regale him with tales of her madcap _mishpochah_, the scent serves as a souvenir of her visit.

_I'd forgotten what it was like waking up with your bed smelling of perfume._

That shame scent. Er, same scent. In bed. With him. Him with her. Him with her body wrapped around his like the scrolls of the Torah…

"Oh, God," Max mutters, surging to his feet, because even though he plans to sit tight, there's no point in sitting still when he isn't sitting pretty.

"Paying a hefty Fine, sir? And I'm not speaking of Sylvia."

"Niles," Mr. Sheffield scolds, scowling at the servant in the door that wasn't wide open before.

"Sorry," Niles simpers. "That was crude."

"Just come in already, would you, please?" Maxwell requests, as if his butler has ever waited for an invitation before entering a room.

"What's the trouble, sir?" Niles inquires in that omniscient accent of his. "You sound a bit Frantic."

"I think I may have crossed the line."

"Oh? Was it a Fine line?"

"No, it was _A Chorus Line_. For God's sake, man, would you knock it off?"

Niles replies with ingénue eyes. "Knock off, did you say? Why, thank you, sir. If anyone deserves time off, it's—"

"Niles, are you familiar with that film The Quiet Man?"

"No."

"Well, it's not about you!" Mr. Sheffield grouses. "And neither is this conversation." He takes a deep breath. Niles is getting on his nerves and Max needs to calm his own. "You see, it's about Miss Fine," he begins, and starts pacing. "I'm afraid that last night, she and I might have… I mean, it's possible that we—"

"Worked up quite a _shvitz_?" Niles supplies. "Don't sweat it."

Max stops and stares at his butler. "How did you know?"

"Oh, sir." Niles chuckles, shaking his head in sympathy for the simpleton that is his employer. "I know everything that goes on in the Sheffield mansion. Or should I say the romancion?"

"You're a regular Miss Marple."

Niles' brow furrows like a shirt in need of ironing. "Was that a compliment or an insult?"

"You know everything," the producer reminds him. "You tell me."

"You tell me what happened with Miss Fine."

"Nothing," Max maintains. "Well, I'm almost positive nothing… untoward happened with Miss Fine."

"You sound a bit rueful, sir," Niles notes.

"Well, true, she's no Rue McClanahan, but…" Maxwell stops short, having noticed that his butler's expression rings of alarm—and not false alarm. "Oh, don't tell me you've never watched The Golden Years."

"It's called…" Niles tries. "Never mind." Niles sighs. "Sir, what I meant was do you regret that something did happen or that something didn't happen?"

Mr. Sheffield shuffles his feet of clay. She's his one weakness.

"Wishful thinking," Niles infers, and incurs a frown from his boss.

"Are you suggesting that I wished something had happened between us?"

"Not us, sir. You and Miss Fine."

"Oh, Niles."

"Just yanking your chain, sir—in a manner of speaking."

"What am I supposed to do?" Max entreats, and retreats until he reaches his desk, the only thing he doesn't mind being up against right now. "I mean, she is rather remarkable, isn't she?"

"She is," Niles concurs.

"And we have kissed before. Recently, actually. Repeatedly, in fact, thanks to that Willie Mays Cyrus chap."

"Yes, I admire him, too, sir. He's the best baseball player in country music."

"No wonder Fran's such a fan of his," Max remarks, tucking his hands inside his pockets. "No wonder I'm such a fan of hers," he adds, and pads across the room. "She looks lovely today, doesn't she? Quite fetching in that ringmaster-red ensemble."

"That's why she's in charge of the Circus Maximus," Niles points out. "Personally, I've always fancied the circus. It's vivacious and spectacular and flashy."

"Just like the girl from Flushing," the producer observes. "Oh, but, Niles, I'm a married man," he asserts, but the delivery is _dreck_ and belies even his own belief in that assertion.

"Sir, Sara wouldn't want you to mourn her forever," Niles reasons. "You promised to love, honor, and cherish her 'til death do you part. You've honored your vows, sir. There's nothing to feel guilty about."

"So you're saying I should… pursue… something with Miss Fine?"

"Yes!" Niles nearly bellows in grief and relief. "Stop being a _schmuck_ and, with a little luck, you'll reel in that gefilte fish in no time. Now, let's practice your _l'chaim_lich maneuver, shall we?"

"My what?"

"If I were Miss Fine, what would you say to me?"

"I'd say if you think you've got a chance with me, old girl, you're a real _schmegegi_."

"Eat _schmutz_, sir," Niles bristles, and bustles out the door in instant indignation.

Maxwell exhales, staring at the open door. Absentmindedly, he begins crooning the lyrics to his morning-after melody: "Bring out all the love you hide and, oh, what a change there'd be."

And then, Max is singing a different tune. He's going to postpone—no, he's going to cancel—his guilt trip and stay home instead. Because he's always felt at home with Fran.

Max makes his way out of his office. He finds Fran in the living room, engrossed in a romance novel.

He pauses, takes a moment to admire the _meydl_ with the _sheyn_ _ponem_ who makes his eyes light up like a menorah, his head spin like a dreidel, and his heart sing "Georgy Girl" every time he looks at her.

Because even though this is the first time he's sung the song out loud since Sara passed, it's been stuck in his head ever since Fran came over the bridge from Flushing to the Sheffields' door.

_When I first hired you, I thought I was just getting a nanny. But, well, you've turned out to be so much more._

"Shalom, Miss Fine," Mr. Sheffield says softly, not wanting to startle her.

Seated on the sofa, legs crossed, mood cross, Fran Fine peers at her boss. "Is that a hi or a goodbye?"

"It's a hi, Miss Fine."

"Hi," she returns, and shoves her bookmark sharply into the spine of her novel.

Words wander in the desert of Maxwell's throat. "Mind if I sit down?" he asks during the exodus.

"I can't tell you what to do with your _tuchus_, Mr. Sheffield," Fran replies.

Max dislikes the disenchantment in her voice. "Miss Fine, I'm terribly sorry about what happened between us. Or rather, what didn't happen between us. Please understand that—"

"I understand, Mr. Sheffield," Fran interjects. "Nothing did happen, nothing can happen, and nothing will happen. I get it. It's no big deal. I mean, you're not exactly my chosen one. What I need is a _macher_, preferably a doctor. Me with a Gentile? Goy vey. My _mishpochah_ will _plotz_. They'll be _kvetching_ and _kibitzing_. They'll say, '_Pish_, you're just _farmisht_.' Please. If I want that kind of drama, I'll go to the theatre. Well, not to one of your shows…"

He knows what she's doing. She was reflecting, the way he was, and now she's deflecting, the way he does. He's only as thick as a blintz, not nearly as naïve and obtuse as Niles thinks. But every time he plays dumb, he gets to stay in denial a little while longer.

But he's known for a while that he's been in denial a little too long.

"Miss Fine," he begins, taking his customary seat on the coffee table, "how strenuously do you think your family would object to an interfaith… relationship?"

"An interfaith relationship with whom? John the Baptist?"

"Would you settle for Max the _Shmendrik_?"

Fran frowns. "Mr. Sheffield, what exactly are you saying here?" she wonders, sounding hopeful yet hesitant.

Maxwell takes her hands in his. They're a good fit, and so are he and Fran. "Miss Fine, the reason I felt guilty had less to do with the fact that I thought something happened and more to do with the fact that I thought nothing happened. I felt guilty because when it occurred to me that nothing… occurred, I was disappointed. Plus, I was sort of hoping our first time together would be… memorable."

Fran's eyes stretch like pizza dough. "Our first—"

"I-I mean… I mean, I _don't_ mean to suggest that… Well, first, we should have a first date first, before we have a first… anything else."

"Oh, Mr. Sheffield!" Fran whoops, and scoops him up in a hug. "Break out the bubbly grape juice and propose, why dontcha?"

"Propose?" Max repeats, and his voice squeaks like a balloon animal.

"A toast," Fran clarifies. "To us. To the start of us."

Mr. Sheffield exhales, then inhales her perfume. "Miss… Fran?"

"Fine."

"Sorry. Miss Fine—"

"Fran. It's fine."

"Fran, I just wanted to tell you that I wouldn't mind if you addressed me as Max."

"As in Maximum satisfaction?" Fran snickers.

Max sniffles.

The nanny leans back, still holding him, but this time at arm's length. "Oy, you still under the weather?"

"Yes," the butler butts in, eavesdropping as usual. "And who would have guessed that the girl we described was just exactly what the doctor prescribed?" Niles smiles. "Take your medicine, Mr. Sheffield, and perhaps your wildest Frantasies will come true."

* * *

End.


End file.
